Ella the Tennis Ball Cannon

Today, I went to my psychiatrist. We talked about adding a new medication, I learned that I had to eat food when I take my Geodon, and then I got compared to a tennis ball cannon.

It went something like this:

I started talking about how I was concerned that because I’m on so much medication, my brain doesn’t fully belong to me anymore, that I’m being controlled by chemicals that I swallow twice a day.

So she said, “Ella–gee, I don’t know how to phrase this–you’re like one of those machines that shoots tennis balls. You know, one of the machines that you use when you’re practicing whacking the ball back over the net.”

“Yes?” I said, wondering where on earth she was going with it.

“You were born with your brain going like this,” she mimes tennis balls flying out of a machine really, really quickly, “and most people’s brains are moving like this,” she mimes tennis balls moving at a reasonable space.

I nod and remind myself that it creeps people out when you look them straight in the eye for too long.

“You’re a high end machine, the super deluxe model, but frequently you move so quickly that your battery runs out or you need oil or lubricant. That’s what the medication is.”

I’m envisioning one of these babies:

“But you’re the one of the best machines out there. It’s like how a fancy Mercedes needs a lot of upkeep.”¬†She continues to talk about how smart and good at things I am, it’s just that I need some help, and that I’m lucky that I’m not one of these:

So everybody, as of today I am now an official tennis ball launcher/shooter/thing that requires a lot of work. Very expensive work. Work that you need really good insurance to help pay for. But I’m excellent at preparing athletes for the French Open.